


Quis Custodiet?

by Jonquil (MadameHardy)



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, F/M, Watchers, season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 19:25:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14879751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameHardy/pseuds/Jonquil
Summary: "I wrote my thesis on you..."  A postlude to S5's "Checkpoint".





	Quis Custodiet?

Apparently the news of his chip had not spread as widely as the news of his Slayer associations. Spike savored the atmosphere in the crypt; the tang of fear, the white knuckles on the crossbow, the shifting eyes that didn't quite meet his, the slight tremble in the hand wrapped around the cross. It had been far, far too long. He luxuriated in the sudden return to his proper role as the Big Bad, swaggering through a world full of prey. 

The tight-arsed blonde was talking. Something about the Slayer. Half-drunk on the fear and the respect, he scarcely bothered listening to the words. Unexpectedly, the bint said something interesting. 

"I'd think you'd want to kill her. You've killed Slayers before." 

He snapped to attention. _I've got a reputation. Still._ "Heard of me, have you?" He began closing the distance between them, eyes focused on her face. 

The blonde smiled nervously and blurted, "I ... wrote my thesis on you." 

_Ah. One of those. How... nice._ He tilted his head and purred, "Well, well. Isn't that neat." Her pupils dilated. The mixture of scents in the room shifted, deepened, complex and deliciously familiar. He flicked the briefest hint of a smile at her, a shared secret. "Tell me, pet, now we're such good friends, how's the Slayer doing?" 

Before she could answer, the rapport was broken; one of the other wankers asked another tedious question, and Spike pretended to shift his attention. Every so often, he casually glanced back at the miniskirted Watcher, always meeting her fascinated gaze. _Got her._

* * *

The telephone rang three times before it was answered. A sleepy voice said, "Hello? Mr. Travers?" 

"Not quite, love." 

"You! You can't get in." A slight quaver. "This may be a hotel, but we've warded it thoroughly. I suggest you stay away, if you value your own safety." 

"Thanks, I've eaten." He let that sink in. "Have you? Do your Watcher duties allow you to leave the hotel, or can't you go out without Daddy?" 

"I'm not a fool. I've read about Yorkshire. And Peking. And I know quite well that you don't kill for hunger alone. Why would I risk your company?" 

_Aching to be persuaded, aren't we?_ "Boredom? A desire for information? The chance to get one-up on those ancient sticks for once instead of being the tea-girl and general dogsbody?" 

Her voice grew shrill. "The chance to die young? I don't think so, Spike. You've killed three Slayers..." 

_I have? How nice for me._

"... I don't see you adding a Watcher to your list." 

"Pet, you're not thinking. I've kept truces before; you should have heard about them. The Slayer's been alone with me and lived; I saved the bleeding Watcher from Angelus. If you don't give me a reason to kill you, you're perfectly safe." _Too bloody true, more's the pity._

Her voice sounded bewildered. "What's in it for you?" 

"The same thing that's in it for you. Better knowledge of the enemy." He shifted tactics, assuming his most caressing tones. "Have you had a better offer for the evening?" 

"We can meet briefly. Some place public, well-lit, and open. For ten minutes, no more." 

"Why not meet me at The Bronze? It's the only night spot in this nowhere town. Floodlights at the entrances, constantly full of desperate teenagers. Banal, but public as Hell. Half eleven." He hung up before she could think better of it. 

* * *

Lydia leaned her back against the worn plush banquette and sipped nervously at her tea. It was 11:35. _I read the history, damn it! I know how he thinks. I know he likes to play with his victims. I know he's twistier than Satan's own corkscrew. I know all about Yorkshire. I'm prepared._

Another sip. Another glance at her wrist. 11.39. _He saw a chance for an easy mindgame and took it. I was a fool. If Dr. Travers ever finds out about this, it's the sack for sure. And I'll never find another job in my specialty... or any other._

The cup was empty. 11.41. _To hell with this._ She stood and scrabbled for her belongings. 

A voice behind her purred, "Impatient, love?" 

She whirled, knocking over her purse. A stake bounced out of it and rolled clattering across the floor. 

The vampire cocked an eyebrow, bent, retrieved the stake, and handed it to her with a flourish."Wouldn't want to lose that." He didn't look worried. 

"You're late." 

He smiled. "For quite some years, actually." 

"You said you'd be here at 11:30." Was that a whine in her voice? 

He shrugged. "Busy social schedule. I'm here now. You going to run away without getting any of your answers? I thought you'd more spine than that, but... " He waved toward the door. 

She straightened her back, gave him her coldest schoolteacher glare, and took back control of the conversation. "You have ten minutes. Sit down." 

The blue gaze dropped to her lips, then returned to meet her eyes. "Ten minutes it is, then." She shivered, then hoped he hadn't noticed. 

* * *

"So, you're saying that vampire packs hunt together because they're too weak to hunt separately?" 

"Hardly, pet. Some packs hunt for company, some to make a bigger mess, some from weakness. Wouldn't advise you to assume which." He smiled at her, one hunter to another. 

Lydia smiled back, dropped her eyes to her notes, and hastily scribbled "packs: motives variable". "So, you yourself hunt alone?" 

"I'd hate to think I'd formed a pattern. I do what suits me." 

She stole a glance upward; as before, she met those piercing eyes. A waiter began sweeping the floor next to them. Another began pointedly stacking chairs. Lydia checked her watch and was jerked back to reality. 

"Goodness, it's late! Time quite got away from me. Good night, then." She reached for her purse. 

He leaned toward her, lips next her ear. "Must we part? The night is young... or does your Head do bed-checks?" 

She felt a flush rising to her cheeks. To cover, she made her voice brisk and matter-of-fact. "This is a public place, and it's closing. I'm not fool enough to be alone with you in private." 

He snorted. "The Bronze is the best hunting ground in town. The waiters expect to find the odd corpse under the table. If I'd wanted to kill you, you'd be dead. " He gave her a predatory smile, which she found weirdly reassuring. "Besides..."--his voice was honey poured over razor blades--"I can think of better uses for privacy.... can't you?" 

She opened her mouth to reject him utterly, but instead heard herself saying "I suppose we haven't quite finished.... talking." 

* * *

His lips were, as she'd expected, cold. Surprisingly soft, considering they'd been dead nearly 200 years. She shut her eyes and leaned into his kisses, distantly aware of the cold of his hands gliding up her spine, with cold air following in their wake. A flash of light distracted her, but she ignored it. 

Spike growled; she instinctively jerked back. When she opened her eyes, she saw a face distorted by fury, though not quite demonic. His next words were completely un-loverlike, and not addressed to her. 

"Harm? You're early. Did you get it?" 

A girlish giggle sounded. "On Polaroid. Now can I eat her for kissing my Spiky-sweet?" 

Lydia grabbed her shirt to her chest and spun around. 

A long-haired blonde was frowning down at a camera. "Was it the red button for telephoto? Because I think she'd look better a long way away." 

"Harm." There was no trace of honey left in his tone. "If you've fucked this up, I am going to rip your head off and pour the ashes into a catbox." 

The words burst from Lydia's lips. "Who IS this?" 

Spike's smile was malicious, all seduction gone. "Harmony, meet a Watcher. Watcher, meet Harmony. Doubt she's your type, judging by the evening's earlier festivities, but watch all you've a mind to." 

Lydia yanked her shirt over her head. "Thank you, I've seen all I need." She strode for the door. Or intended to. 

Spike was between her and it before she'd taken a step, snatching the print from Harmony along the way. "Not quite, love." 

"If you wanted to kill me, you'd have done it ten minutes ago. You've had your sick manipulative fun, get out of my way!" 

"Hardly. I haven't begun my sick manipulative fun." 

She took an involuntary step back and wrapped her arms around herself. 

He curled his lip. "I'd sooner shag the Slayer." The vampire bimbo giggled happily. "Let's understand one another. You've compromised yourself. I have proof. How long d'you think you'd last if your Head saw this picture?" 

Lydia blanched. 

He looked thoughtfully down at the Polaroid, growing clearer and more incriminating with each passing second. "Slayers shagging vampires, Watchers shagging vampires, what is this compulsion you lot have for sleeping -- or not -- with the enemy?" He shook his head sadly. "Not at all what we were accustomed to under the late dear Queen. Modern morals..." 

She hit him. Or tried to. Her fist batted empty air. The vampire had leaned away almost before she'd begun to swing, forcibly reminding her that he was stronger, faster, and much more dangerous than herself. 

Spike smiled again, his expression a mockery of its former charm. "Now, love, no need to get physical. More physical, anyway. Never needed your body at all. Just your sources. I'm short a researcher." 

Her face must have reflected her confusion. A voice whined from behind them, "Spike.... are you going to kill her yet?" Apparently the confusion was shared. 

Spike snarled "Shut up, Harm," without bothering to glance away. His attention remained, as always, focused entirely on Lydia. She no longer found that focus erotic. "You will give me your phone number. When I call, you'll find out what I need to know. As long as I'm satisfied with your services, this picture stays in Sunnydale, next my heart. If I'm not satisfied.... well, I'm sure there's another tweedy blonde at Oxford just dying to step into your practical pumps." 

He met her eyes again. "Do we understand one another?" He wasn't wearing his demon face; he didn't need it. 

"I can't do this. I swore an oath." She heard her voice quivering and despised herself even more. 

He shrugged. "As you like, then. Someone else will swear that oath soon, and I'm sure your snap will be a useful reminder of what not to do." 

He had her. She must sacrifice either her career or her honor. The bitterness broke through. "Why didn't you just kill me?" 

He smirked. "Not worth the effort? Come now, which is it: broken promises or unemployment?" 

She dropped her gaze. "The first. I'll answer your questions. As long as I don't think--" 

"You'll answer my questions without thinking at all. I have you"--he smiled down at the photograph--"here in the palm of my hand. Harm, come." Trailed by Harmony's delighted giggles, he left the crypt. 

Lydia walked to the door and watched his retreating back, one arm around the blonde, the damned coat swirling behind him in the moonlight. Then she turned back to retrieve her cross, her stake, and her outer clothes. Not her dignity, though, or her self-respect, or her honor. Never those. 

_Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?_ — Who will watch the watchers?

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, thanks to my long-suffering betas, Anastasia, Nestra, and Carrie.


End file.
